Page 36 of Property of Necro
I pull away quickly, not wanting to make this too weird for him, and do a little dance in the narrow aisle. “Where did you get these?”
“I made them.”
My eyes widen in wonder. “You cook and crochet. Crochet like actual patterns?”
Grinning, his head dips in timid affirmation.
“You’re talented.”
Redness suffuses his cheeks as if he’s not used to being complimented. That can’t be true. I consistently compliment his skills. He’s the nicest man here. Possibly the nicest I’ve ever met.
I wiggle my foot for him. “Nobody’s ever made anything for me before.”
“Ever?”
“Nope. Never.” Shaking my head, I drop beside him, and he frowns as I pull the blanket off the back of the pew and drape it across my exposed legs. I tuck it around my hips to stay extra warm and send a silent prayer to the universe that Necro doesn’t take this from me like they did all my other belongings, including my precious purple Crocs with all the fun charms I spent years collecting and swapping in and out. I miss those the most.
“Where did you learn to do all this?” I gesture to my gifts.
“In prison.”
Oh. Wow.
“You were in prison?” I ask, keeping any judgment from my tone.
“Yeah. Twenty years.”
“Am I allowed to ask for what?”
“What do you think it was for?”
“I have no idea. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that you were in prison at all.”
A belly laugh booms out of Mama as he knocks his massive shoulder into mine playfully.
I grin over at him and wait for him to decide whether he wants to tell me his story. I’m dying to know.
“I was a hellion growin’ up. Got in some trouble. Then I got in more trouble, drunk in a bar one night. Picked a fight with a group of men. Two of ‘em ended up dead, which I didn’t know, ‘cause I got the fuck outta there when the cops were called. Drinkin’ and drivin’ is bad on anyone’s best day. Doin’ it hopped up on coke, on a Harley, in the middle of the night, might be the dumbest fuckin’ shit ever.”
“Sounds like it. Then what happened?” I press for more, riveted by his story.
“I hit a patch of gravel on a country road, takin’ a corner too fast. Flew off my bike. I spent two weeks in the hospital with internal bleeding, road rash, and on account of both my nuts explodin’ in my sac when they hit my fuel tank.”
My mouth opens and closes like a fish, unable to find the words. “Wow,” I force out. “That sounds like…like a lot,” I fumble, twisting my fingers in my new blanket. I mean… His nuts exploded. He spent time in prison. How do you respond to that? Sorry about your balls?
“It was.” He chuckles. “It sucked. I had a shit life growin’ up. Spent the next twenty years behind bars, gettin’ my head on straight.”
“When did you get out?”
“Six years ago.”
“Well, um…thanks for telling me.” I take a page out of his book and knock my shoulder into his. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Mama hums but doesn’t say anything more as we sit side by side, just existing together.
As I savor the peaceful moment, the urge to confess something I haven’t spoken aloud, maybe ever, crawls across my skin. If Mama has the strength to share something personal with someone he barely knows, perhaps I do too. Maybe that makes it easier. There’s less at stake, and I don’t think he’d judge me. “I was a child bride,” I blurt.
A minute passes. Then two.
